


Nameless Kings

by icarus_chained



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Comfort, Confrontations, Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hope, Joyful, Post-Canon, Reconciliation, Resurrection, Victory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 23:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the dust settles for Stephen in the aftermath of victory, he receives an unlooked-for visitor, suffers an unlooked-for confrontation, and is granted an unlooked-for gift. The Raven King is not at all as he might have expected. </p><p>Stephen Black and John Uskglass, in the aftermath of Episode 7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nameless Kings

**Author's Note:**

> "My skin means that you shall be raised up on high, Nameless Slave. It means that your kingdom is waiting for you, and that your enemies shall be destroyed. It means that the time is almost come. Let's go for a stroll, and find my tree."  
> \--- Vinculus to Stephen, Episode 6
> 
> "It is destined that I should kill the king and take his place, and now I see that you are that king."  
> \--- Stephen to the Gentleman, Episode 7

So then, Stephen thought, sitting exhaustedly upon a tree root. This was victory. His destiny was fulfilled: he had killed a king and taken his place. He was the King of Lost Hope now, though perhaps that title was not currently quite so grand as it had been before. A kingdom that presently consisted of a large pile of rubble and a few dozen lost and wandering souls was perhaps not the most auspicious of kingdoms. It would seem that neither magic nor faerie succession were much concerned with doing things neatly. 

Nonetheless. This kingdom of rubble was now his kingdom, and those lost souls were now his people. He was, for better or worse, their king.

It was strange, perhaps, that it should feel so empty a triumph. Not because the kingdom was ruined. He could rebuild from that. He _would_ rebuild, he thought, and better than before. There would be freedom here, when he was done, and something cleaner in aspect than the decaying palace of cruelty that the Gentleman had so delighted in. No, it was not the ruin of this place that weighed him down, for ruins could be rebuilt.

It was the cost of it. It was the price that so very many had paid. Destiny should not take so much, he thought. Destiny should not cost what could not be repaid. The Lady Pole, who had suffered so much. Mrs Strange, who had been innocent, and misused simply for having drawn the eyes of something older and crueller than herself. Even the magicians, though he confessed he did not care so much for them. Magicians used others as tools, or Norrell did at least. It was not so wrong, perhaps, for them to be destiny's tools in return. Yet they had paid, even so, and maybe more than they ought.

And worse, for those at least were alive to heal, were those who were not. Those who had given their lives, to cruelty or to destiny. Those ... who could never be repaid.

Destiny was surely a heavy thing, Stephen thought tiredly. A proud and hopeful thing, to grant freedom where before had been slavery, and power where before had been helplessness. He was not ungrateful, nor insensible to all he could do now. It was only ... It was only that it had cost so very much. In this troubled silence as the dust settled, he could not help but remember that.

He was king now, after all. There was no-one here with power to chastise him, should he wish to sit for a moment and mourn. That, at least, was one immediate reward.

Something moved, suddenly, in the dust and cracked tile of the erstwhile ballroom. He saw it only from the corner of his eye, and might not have startled to it earlier. There had been fairies and perhaps humans aplenty to gawk and stare at their new king, in the aftermath of their previous ruler's destruction. He had been catching glimpses of them from the moment he sat down, though it had not much concerned him. It would, later. He would help and reassure these people, what remained of them, at a later moment. In this private one, though, he had not cared, nor startled at their appearance.

This figure was different. It was not a thought, only an instinct, but he obeyed it anyway. He came to his feet, slowly and cautiously, and turned to face the flicker of darkness that had caught his eye.

A man stared back at him, dark and ancient-looking, wild of hair and stern of countenance. A man, Stephen knew instinctively, of more than enough power to chastise anyone. It was in his carriage, his stance. Not even the Gentleman had carried himself with such loose and wild abandon. There was no hesitance here, no submission or uncertainty. His gaze was met, and held, with perfect self-possession, and the strange man smiled slightly at him. He felt himself examined by some proud and distant thing, and found himself more than a little perturbed.

He did not show it, though. He had had enough of that, of guarding himself out of fear. If this victory he had just won meant anything, if it was worth the price that had been paid for it, then no more would he flinch in fear inside _his own kingdom_.

"Your pardon, sir," he said, standing straight and firm among the tree roots, and inclining his head in the stranger's direction. "I was lost in thought. May I help you?"

The man's smile widened. Not mocking, it seemed to Stephen. Perhaps proud, though he could not have reasoned why. The stranger came to him, moved with flowing, powerful steps to stand before him, and Stephen did not flinch. He raised his chin, instead, and met that wild and ancient gaze as firmly as he could.

"... I came to pay my respects," the man said, after a moment. His head tilted thoughtfully, and the words were measured, though with an odd undercurrent to them. "To the King of Lost Hope, from ..." He paused, a gleam of humour in his eyes. "From one nameless slave to another. May you rule long and well, good sir."

Stephen's eyes widened slightly. From one ... 

"You are the Raven King," he said, and it was not quite a question. The stranger, the Raven King, inclined his head, and it was amusement writ upon his mouth this time. 

Stephen shook his head, at once awed and somewhat angry. It was the former he should value, he thought, and yet it was the latter that he embraced. If the stranger had come but hours earlier, or days later, it would not have been. Stephen would have remembered himself enough to show only his respect. He had only just been thinking of destiny and its costs, though. He had only just been thinking of prices never to be repaid.

"... I am told," he said, quietly and calmly enough, though from the shine in the Raven King's eyes some glimmer of temper must have shown through. "I am told, sir, that you had foreseen this. All of this. You foretold my destiny. Perhaps ... Perhaps even had a hand in bringing it to pass. Is this true?"

The Raven King tilted his head, a dark and birdlike gesture. "... Perhaps," he said, soft with all his power, and perhaps amused. Perhaps pitying, too, or something close to sympathetic. As close as anyone raised by fairies could come to such a thing. "Why do you ask?"

Stephen swallowed. Not from fear. He still felt the rush of England's magic inside him, though it had long since vanished from his veins. He remembered the power that belonged to this man, the magic that was his to command. He remembered killing a fairy, one who had loved him and terrified him both. He remembered all those people that same fairy had harmed beforehand, who had not deserved it.

He remembered who that fairy had killed, and why that man had embraced his death.

"Should I be grateful?" he asked, as softly in his turn, and there was no hiding the anger now. There was no hiding the pain, the fury, or the grief. "You have given me a kingdom, sir. Do you think I should be grateful for it?"

There was a moment of silence, then, in which Stephen thought that he might die. It was not entirely a bitter thought. The only power he had now was a title, all the magic once more in someone else's hands, and he was so tired of fear. It was almost cheering, to face death this once with his head held high.

Yet it was not death than answered him, nor even anger. The Raven King laughed instead, a low and earthy sound, and bowed for half an instant across one arm.

"Why should you be grateful to me?" he asked, wry and fearsome and amused. "I have not given you anything. What was fought for was won, and by those who did the fighting. Thank yourself, Nameless King. No other has earned it."

Something broke, for Stephen, at those words. He did not entirely understand what. It was as though a knot which had been tied inside his chest came loose abruptly and all his anger drained away, leaving behind not emptiness but something close to gratitude, and not too far from hope. He looked away, broke from that fierce and terrible gaze, and looked instead about his ruined kingdom, waiting so patiently to be rebuilt.

"... Forgive me, sir," he said, with humility but perhaps also some humour of his own. "It has been a trying day. A trying _decade_. I apologise for my rudeness, and welcome you to what remains of my new home." 

He offered the Raven King a tired smile, and a deeper bow than had been offered him. He might be King here, but even a king would offer respect where it was owed. Power was not an excuse for wanton cruelty or disrespect. If Stephen had learned nothing else in his life, and in these past years and months in particular, he had learned _that_.

John Uskglass smiled at him. He was a terrible thing, Stephen thought distantly. Not as the Gentleman had been terrible. The Raven King had none of the Gentleman's whimsical viciousness. Yet he was terrible nonetheless. He felt like a storm, caught in the shape of a man. He felt like magic given shape, and to anyone who had survived this last while, that description alone would illustrate how raw and how terrible a thing he might be. He was beautiful, but he was by no means ever _safe_.

"You will last well, I think," John Uskglass said, with a wild and happy light in his eyes. "It is not all who can manage it. Few enough are born who may survive to rule in Faerie. You are not ill-chosen, Stephen Black, King-who-is-Nameless. Remember that."

He turned to leave then. He had said his piece, and Stephen began to understand that the Raven King did not stand on ceremony unless he very much wished to do so. So he turned, and gathered himself, and Stephen had enough of a remnant of magic inside him to feel it happen. He could not allow it, he found. Not yet. He had one more thing he had to ask. For the sake of prices that could not be repaid, he had one more question to be answered.

"A moment, sir!" he called, and the Raven King did oblige him. John Uskglass stopped in the midst of his magic, and turned back to raise a curious eyebrow at where Stephen still stood. Stephen almost flinched, a little, but this was too important to let go.

"There is something I would have answered, if you will allow it," he said. When the Raven King did not depart, he took it as permission enough to continue. "There was a man, sir, in England. He wore your words upon his skin. He died for them. I ... I watched it happen. Do you remember him? Do you remember his name?"

He could not think that Vinculus had died for nothing. It was not enough that he had fulfilled his purpose, that he had obeyed his destiny and relayed the prophecy to those who had need of it. The man had _died_ , had walked to his death calmly and willingly, had promised Stephen his freedom and then stood unflinching in the face of the Gentleman's wrath. That could not be for nothing. This man, this thing, who had written Vinculus' death upon his skin, must at least acknowledge him for it. It was, very suddenly, the thing Stephen wanted most in this world. At this time and this place, while the dust settled and the kings came home, he wanted very much that those who had died to bring it about should not go unremembered.

He had startled the other man, he saw. He thought perhaps he might be proud of that, for it must be rare enough that anyone should startle the Raven King. That startlement fled soon enough, however, and what followed it was an expression too strange by far for Stephen to decipher. The Raven King turned to him, and what emotion lived in those ancient eyes he suddenly could not fathom.

"Do I remember him?" John Uskglass mused, with something strained beneath his words. Fury? Amusement? Stephen could not tell. "A man who died in my name, and for my words. A strange thing to ask. Do you grieve for him, King of Lost Hope?"

Stephen nodded. There was fear in him once again, for never yet had he seen this man look so very _faerie_ , but he had come too far to retreat now. And he did. He did grieve. Out of guilt, out of loss, out of the memory of a hand held out to him and the promise of freedom that had gone with it. Out of admiration, for more courage than Stephen had ever possessed. Out of shame, for his own helplessness in preventing the man's death. Out of bitter fury, for this man who had been so unafraid to die, and for those who had sent him to his death. Yes. Stephen _grieved_. For one brief moment he had had a friend, one who believed in him, whether because of a prophecy or not, and then that friend had been ripped away. For destiny, for _this man's_ words. Did he grieve? Of course, of course he did.

" _Ah_ ," the Raven King said, and that thing in his eyes became clear. Pride. A wild, fierce light of pride, and a fury fit to shake the Earth, and an amusement fit to light any darkness. He beckoned Stephen close, and despite his terror Stephen let himself draw near. The Raven King held out his hand to pull him close, and guided Stephen to a puddle of rainwater on the floor.

"Look," he instructed, with a fey shining in his eyes. "Look, Nameless King. See."

So Stephen looked, and Stephen saw. He saw a horse meandering its way across the Yorkshire moors. He saw two men riding upon it. He saw the first, rumpled and weary and exasperated, lean forward across the horse's mane as though trying to gain what little distance he could from his companion. He saw the man behind him throw back his head in a cackle, and bring an earthen jar, liberated from God knows where, to his lips. He saw the unbroken neck the action revealed, and the blue-black lines inked into the skin beneath a shabby coat. He saw ... he saw a living man, freed from death. He saw a friend who had not died.

He went to his knees, in blind and helpless relief. He held out a hand to the water, not so close as to touch it, and imagined for a moment that he could feel the truth of the vision beneath his fingertips. He imagined, just for a second, that he could feel the truth of Vinculus' resurrection.

"He did not die for my words," John Uskglass told him softly, standing proud and fierce beside him. "He died _as_ my words. And you will find my words are very hard to kill."

Stephen laughed. It held as much tears as joy, but it was real nonetheless. He could hear Vinculus' voice in his head, the words he had said in such nonchalant defiance to the Gentleman. "Try what you like, fairy. You would discover I am very hard to kill." So promises could still be kept, then. So even in the midst of magic, even in the midst of death, promises might still be kept.

He looked up. There was a creature, a king, a nameless slave stood above him. There was a Raven King, who had written destinies into their skin, and kept the promises of them. In that moment, for all that he knelt beside a fearsome thing, Stephen was not afraid, and neither was he angry. For the first time in such a long time, he was happy, instead, and grateful.

"Thank you," he said, as earnestly as he knew how. "For showing me this. It is a gift, and I thank you for it."

John Uskglass smiled without speaking, and leaned down to brush one hand almost delicately across Stephen's face. Brushing away his tears, Stephen realised distantly. Wiping away his grief. He shook his head, opened his mouth to say something, and then, just like that, the Raven King was gone. There was not even a rush of ravens to mark his leaving, only an emptiness where before there had been a man.

An emptiness, and a lingering sensation on Stephen's cheek, the warmth of a king's fingers. A gesture of comfort, from one slave and one king to another.

Today was a good day, Stephen thought, cupping his own hand to that warmth. A good day to start rebuilding, a good day to start remembering. 

Today ... was a very good day to be a king.

**Author's Note:**

> I really, _really_ needed to write something about those scenes between Stephen and Vinculus in Episode 6. I don't know why they affected me so strongly, but they did. The show just ends for Stephen with the Gentleman's death, and he never learns onscreen that Vinculus _isn't dead_. Maybe he got the chance in the book (I will be reading it soon, but I haven't yet), but he didn't in the series, and I really, really needed him to know that. So, um. Sorry?
> 
> Also, I wanted Stephen and John Uskglass, just because. Hope nobody minds?


End file.
